


Necrophiliac in the Morgue

by edy



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Epic Poetry, M/M, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But this moment isn't perfect because he's dead, and I'm making love to his dead body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necrophiliac in the Morgue

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: "desert song" by my chemical romance
> 
> translation into русский available: [Necrophiliac in the Morgue](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4594413/11886817) by [werewolf_](https://ficbook.net/authors/322689)

I feel comfort in a morbid place.  
I work at the local hospital,  
in the morgue.

It's a fucked-up place  
once you think about it.  
Dead people are hanging around,  
and I love every single one of  
them. They're like my children,  
except they're not.  
I'm like their nanny,  
their baby-sitter.

I watch over them at night,  
when the other morgue-workers  
have gone home.  
I don't mind—  
really, I don't.

I like watching as nurses wheel  
newly dead bodies into this  
place. I like watching as they tell  
me to look over their bodies  
while they wait for the coroner  
to arrive.  
He never arrives at night, though—  
when most bodies are disposed down here—  
'cause he's always busy.  
I don't see how. He just has a wife  
and a beautiful baby girl.  
I'm just lucky enough to get onto the topic of  
babies with my current partner—  
female or male.

Enough about me.

But like I said before—  
I don't mind.  
I love watching over the dead bodies.  
I talk to them. They don't talk back, and  
that only reminds me of how lonely I am  
in this life.  
I have a boyfriend now, yeah, but I'm not sure he  
really likes me. It's sad because I like him, but  
I overheard him telling his brother he was thinking about dumping me.  
It's a shame. He missed out on fucking me.

I'm fantastic in bed.

A nurse in pink scrubs comes into  
the morgue, holding onto a gurney  
that has a black body bag on it.  
It doesn't smell yet.  
Sad—I like the stench of  
decaying flesh.

She places it in front of me, tucks a strand of  
golden-yellow hair behind her ear,  
wipes her forehead.  
_Don't touch it_ , she warns, pointing.  
_Wait 'til Dr. Coroner arrives before you even_  
_start to think about touching it._ She grabs the  
clipboard off the gurney, flips through it.

They call the coroner "Dr. Coroner" for some  
reason. I'm not really sure. I guess they don't know how  
to pronounce his name or something.  
To be honest, I don't even know his name.

I nod at the nurse and step toward the body bag.  
_How did this one die?_

She looks down at the clipboard, looking  
very bored. _Uh, drug overdose, I think.  
__He was already dead when they brought him in._

 _Can I see him?_ I give my best smile, and she softly laughs.

_Sure, Frankie. Knock yourself out._

I don't know why she's laughing.

I guess she doesn't really know me that well.  
I go to unzip it, but I look over at her,  
my hazel eyes narrowed. _You can go.  
__I can handle it from here._

She looks at me with  
suspicious eyes, but still leaves.  
Poor choice, on her part.  
The door loudly closes, and I eagerly open  
up the body bag, anxious to see the poor fucker  
who killed himself.

I hear the covering pull apart as each of the  
teeth on the zipper separate. I don't think much  
of it when the first thing I see is a mess of black hair.  
I just continue unzipping it, pushing the bag aside,  
so I can fully see the naked, dead body.

My breath hitches in my throat.

It's my boyfriend.

I reach up, push the hair off his forehead, gasp.  
_Oh, no!_ Despite what the nurse had told me, I still attempt  
CPR. He can't be dead. He can't be!

I flip my fringe out of my face, and it  
reminds me how he used to pester me about  
getting a haircut. I never did, though. I told him to  
fuck off, get a haircut himself. I'm glad he didn't.  
His hair looks great against his pale complexion.

Oh, haha, look at me talking about his  
fucking complexion when I didn't  
find him particular pretty in the first place.

I found him gorgeous.

I give his chest a few more pumps, and  
then seem to fall against the cold tile floor.  
I sob for seconds, minutes, hours, but nothing can bring him back to me.  
I don't know why I'm crying. He probably never loved me.  
We never told each other it,  
never showed each other it.  
I raise up from the floor, give a cautious look  
around the morgue, and then walk toward  
the gurney, grabbing the body, putting it on a table,  
ready to do something I haven't in a while,  
ready to do something some people may find disgusting,  
ready to do something that'll show my boyfriend how much I love him.

I lay him on the table, crawl on top of his smooth body.  
I push strands of hair from his face.  
I admire the way his eyes are closed,  
the way his eyelashes fall against his cheeks.  
I love him, and I'm going to show him.

I unzip my skinny jeans,  
flip my fringe out of my face once more,  
spit on my hand,  
coat my dick,  
guide his legs apart the best I can,  
and slowly ease myself in.

My head tilts back, and a soft chorus  
of moans flood from me. I continue to softly fuck  
his dead body, imagining how it would be different if he were alive.

 _Oh, Frank_ , he would murmur against my neck, as he'd wrap his  
arms around my body, trying to impale himself.  
_You're so beautiful. I love you, love you, love you._

 _And I love you,_ I would mutter into his ear. I would tickle it with my tongue,  
and then grab onto his hips, plunging deeper.

His moans would be perfect because they would blend with mine.  
His sweat would be perfect because it would mix with mine.  
His moves would be perfect because they would match mine.

But this moment isn't perfect because he's dead,  
and I'm making love to his dead body.

We're not in his bedroom, tangled up in the sheets,  
forcing saliva down each other's throats,  
groaning out profane words that cause us to blush.

We're in a morgue, on top of a cold examining table,  
my tears falling on his chest,  
yelling out phrases of despair, agony.

I finish, and I crumple onto the floor, fixing my pants.  
I grab a tissue from the desk beside me, and  
I do my best cleaning him up. _You look beautiful, darling,_  
I whimper, crumbling the Kleenex and tossing it in the  
trash bin. _I'm sorry for everything._  
_I love you._ I pet his head. I can almost hear him tell me the phrase back,  
but that can't be right.

I pick him up, put it back in the body bag,  
zip, and sit back in the chair I was in  
when the nurse wheeled in my dead boyfriend.  
I'm even more depressed, and maybe, just maybe,  
I might take an extra dose of my sleeping pills tonight.  
I don't want to live in this world anymore.  
I don't like doing what I do every time an attractive dead body  
gets transferred here.  
But I can't help it. I'm not right in the head.

So, I just wait in my chair for  
Dr. Coroner. I fold my legs under me  
and gaze over at the body I just violated.  
I smile. _Don't worry, Gerard. I'll join you very soon._  
I want to open the bag again, but I control myself.  
I think I see his spirit looming in the corner, a smile on his face.  
I grin more, and I wave at him. _I'll join you very soon,_ I repeat.


End file.
